Art Therapy
by Sarcastic Casper
Summary: AU. Clary was saved from Valentine when she was three years old. She doesn't remember anything about the father or the brother she left behind. Jace lived with Valentine, and later Jonathon, until he was 12. When their high school gets a new student named Sebastian Verlac, their carefully constructed worlds come crashing down. (Title subject to change)
1. I'll Always Come Back for You

**1998**

Clarissa Morgenstern stared out the window into the cold, moonless night. Her brother had left to go hunting with their father hours ago. She was supposed to be in bed, but three-year-old Clarissa hated to be left out. She had an adventurous streak the servants complained about. "Little Clarissa," they'd say. "She's always getting into trouble." Her daddy beat her for sticking her nose where it didn't belong sometimes, but he'd always had a soft spot for his baby girl. He didn't beat her as much as he beat Jonathon.

Clarissa hoped that her daddy and Jonathon came back soon. She'd had a nightmare and was terrified of the monsters. She thought she could see them in every shadow, creeping up behind her, closing in on her, preparing to devour her. She shivered and hugged her blanket tighter around her.

"Please come home soon," she whispered into the lonely night.

* * *

Jacob sat in the library, looking through an unabridged copy of _A Divine Comedy_. He especially liked this book because it was illustrated. He had trouble with the Latin, but he could usually understand the plot based on the pictures. The art was colorless, but beautiful nonetheless.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed 10 P.M. Jacob sighed. If his father wasn't home by now, the man wouldn't bother. Jacob closed his book and placed it on the shelf, making sure that everything was alphabetized and organized. He knew that his father liked things to be neat and orderly. The old man had physically beaten that idea into his head for four years.

Jacob sometimes wondered where his father went when he wasn't at home. Whenever the young boy asked, the man would reply with a vague reference to his "business." If he kept asking, his father would backhand him.

Jacob turned off the lights in the library and was left standing alone in complete darkness. He was afraid of the dark, but his father had always told him that his fear was silly, child-like. "Only babies are afraid of the dark," his father would say. "And I raised a man." Punctuating his admonishment with a slap, Jacob's father would warn his boy to "stop whining and go back to sleep."

Jacob wanted to yell that he _was_ a child, only four years old, and that it was perfectly natural for kids to be scared of the dark. But he wanted to make his father proud even more, so he held his tongue.

Humming one of Bach's concertos to keep his fear at bay, the young boy walked up the stairs to his room. He lay down on his white bed in his empty white room and pulled his white covers up over his head, trying to shield himself from the encroaching darkness.

* * *

The forest was pitch black, filled with the eerie calls of nocturnal creatures. Valentine smiled into the night, a cruel and predatory smile, as cold as the icicles hanging from the trees overhead. The man glanced at his son.

Jonathon was only six years old, but already he was following in his father's footsteps. With hair as white as the snow settling on the mountains around them and eyes as black as the inky night sky, the boy was a spitting image of Valentine.

"Father," Jonathon said quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever prey they were stalking. "Are we ever going to kill anything? What's the point of hunting if we're only going to wander around the forest for hours on end?"

Valentine slapped his son across the face. "Stupid boy," he whispered menacingly, although he was secretly glad his son was so clever. "I do not appreciate your insubordination." The boy did not apologize or lower his eyes in submission like the other children. Rather, he stood his ground and matched his father's gaze evenly.

"I am not killing anything, Jonathon," said Valentine in a cold, clear voice, bringing Jonathon further into the forest until the trees started to thin. He motioned towards the clearing ahead of them where a lone woman in strange garb lay sleeping. "You are."

* * *

Clarissa had dozed off sometime during her vigil. Hours had passed since she stood watch at the window, waiting for her father and brother to come home.

A hand clamping down on her shoulder woke her with a start. She opened her mouth to scream, but then Jonathon's voice was calming her down, telling her that the monsters were just in her head. She smiled at her brother, glad that he was safe after the hunt.

"How was it?" she asked him. Clarissa was never allowed to go on hunts, and while she hated being left out, she didn't like killing things.

Jonathon smiled wide, showing his missing front tooth. "It was perfect," he told his sister.

"I was scared that you wouldn't come back. I don't like being alone," the little girl said in a scared voice.

"Don't worry, little Clarissa," Jonathon reassured her. "I'll always come back for you."

* * *

**Alright guys. Let me know what you thought! Was it great? Was it horrendous? Did it make you lose faith in humanity or the future of the English language? Tell me. Also, I'm not sure if I should continue this story. I've had this idea nagging me for a while now, but I've never done a fanfiction. Your reviews/reads are greatly appreciated!**

**~ Sarcastic Casper  
**

**P.S. A note about "Jacob": I know his name is sort of Jonathon Christopher in the book, but having two characters with the same name doesn't really work with my storyline. I hope it doesn't offend you too much :)**


	2. My Boy

Clarissa Morgenstern sat on the hard plastic chair, fidgeting with her hands. She wasn't entirely sure why they were here. She couldn't read very well yet, but her brother told her that the sign above the front door said "Police Station." "Why are we here, Jonathon?" Clarissa asked in a small voice. "Where's daddy?"

"I'm not sure, little sister." Jonathon didn't enjoy being uncertain about anything. Like Valentine, he appreciated a well-formulated plan. This detour was definitely not something his father had foreseen.

Valentine had met some colleagues in the city. He'd brought his kids along so that they could see the lights and the skyscrapers. Jonathon hadn't really cared; he'd never been interested in the finer things in life. But little Clarissa had found everything exciting. She'd flitted around like a tiny faerie, her unruly red hair forming a halo around her chubby head while she twirled under the sky. Valentine had laughed with her, his rich baritone voice mixing with her high-pitched squeals of delight. Jonathon had stood to the side and watched, entirely uninterested.

They were driving home along the nearly-deserted road when red and blue lights flashed behind them. Valentine pulled the car over, cursing colorfully while Jonathon covered his baby sister's ears. A young cop came up to the driver's window, asked for license and registration, and informed Valentine that he had been going fifteen miles over the speed limit. Valentine apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again. They were about to leave when the officer noticed Jonathon in the backseat. He stared open-mouthed at the bruises covering the boy's face, then he saw the finger-shaped marks around the little girl's tiny wrists. He called for backup and brought the whole family into the station.

And now here they were. Valentine had been taken in for questioning, leaving the two siblings to cling to each other for protection in this strange place. "It'll be alright, Clarissa." Jonathon whispered to the little girl who clutched at his arm as if her life depended on it. "We'll make it out of this. Together."

"Together," she agreed.

**ooo**

Jacob looked at the clock again. His tutor had left ages ago, after criticizing the boy's rendition of Bach's Minuet in D Minor. Jacob's finger's had slipped while he was doing a trill, and the instructor had yelled at him and hit his fingers with a ruler.

His father had promised to be home today. He said he had new stories about his other children to share. Jacob wanted to meet them someday. He wanted to meet anyone really. He was stick of being stuck in this house all by himself all the time. He loved his father and he enjoyed his father's company. Jacob loved it when Valentine took him on business trips and adventures.

But Jacob was four years old, and he got lonely sometimes. He tried to be tough, because that's what Valentine wanted. But Jacob wasn't as strong as his father, no matter how much he tried to act like he was. He wanted someone to chase the monsters away, to read to him, to just sit and be near him. He was so sick of being so alone. "Daddy," the young boy whispered into the darkness. "Please come home, daddy."

**ooo**

The woman in front of Clarissa looked nice enough. She had the same vibrant red hair, the same green eyes, the same freckled face as the little girl in front of her. "Hi there, sweetie," said the strange woman with a small smile.

Clarissa didn't respond. She didn't trust this woman yet.

"My name is Jocelyn Fray. You can call me Ms. Jocelyn, if you'd like. What's your name?"

"Clarissa Morgenstern."

"What a pretty name, Clarissa. Do you mind if I call you Clary?"

The girl rolled the new word around in her tongue, tasting its strangeness and beauty. "Clary." She smiled. "I like that."

"I do too." Ms. Jocelyn smiled. "I'm supposed to sit down and talk with you, but I'm not always a huge fan of talking. Do you like to draw?"

Clary's face lit up. "I love drawing," she admitted shyly.

"Me too. I'm a part-time painter, you know."

"Like for your job?" Clary asked, eyes wide. People could have jobs where all they did was art? The idea was foreign and wonderful to her.

"Only sometimes. But yes, I do get paid to draw. Do you want to draw right now?" she asked, pulling out a large bag filled with supplies.

Clary nodded her head eagerly. She liked this woman.

**ooo**

Jonathon sat with perfect posture, looking at the man in front of him. He wasn't fooled by the man's kind eyes or small smile. He didn't accept the peace offering the man had placed in front of him. He didn't show any emotion at all.

"Are you hungry, my boy?" the man asked in what Jonathon assumed was supposed to be a jovial tone. "Thirsty maybe?" He pushed the soda further across the table.

Jonathon stayed silent, looking at the man evenly. His father had shown him how to kill a man with whatever household items happened to be lying around. He figured it was probably bad form to murder a cop in a police station, but he entertained himself with the idea for a few minutes.

The officer, as if sensing the boy's thoughts, flinched visibly.

**ooo**

"Clary," Jocelyn began. "Who is that?" She pointed to a figure Clary had drawn on the side of the page with surprising detail.

"That's my daddy."

"Is he a good daddy or a bad daddy?" Jocelyn asked while drawing her own picture.

"Both, I guess," Clary said. She continued to draw two more figures. "That's me," she grinned, indicating a stick figure with frizzy red hair and a pink dress. "That's my brother, Jonathon." She pointed to the third stick figure. It looked like a small version of the father. "Jonathon's nice, but he scares me sometimes."

"How so?" Jocelyn asked, handing Clary an orange crayon.

"He's like Daddy. They both love me very much, but they can get mean sometimes." She drew another picture. "Daddy," she said, pointing to the biggest stick figure that was towering over the other two. "Sometimes he hits me or Jonathon. But he's always nicer to me."

"Why does he hit you?" Jocelyn's voice was contained, but her breathing hitched slightly.

"He only hits us when we're bad. Like the other day, I was scared of the monsters in the dark and he slapped me on the face. I'm a big kid now. I shouldn't be afraid."

"And you say Jonathon is like him?"

"Jonathon doesn't really hit me. Sometimes, but he always says he's sorry. Daddy never does. Jonathon is mean, though. He's bad. He likes to tear the wings off butterflies and he shoots things for fun when he and Daddy go hunting together. He says he'd never hurt me, but sometimes he does. He doesn't really mean to, I know." Clary looked at her drawing critically. "Can you pass me the black? I want to get their eyes right."

Jocelyn passed Clary the crayon and excused herself from the room. How on earth had she let this happen?

**ooo**

"Well, my boy, it looks like we're in a bit of a pickle. You know that my name is Detective Jameson, but I don't know a whole lot about you." He twirled a blue pen around his fingers. "Son, I need to know what you're all about. Can you tell me about yourself, my boy?"

Jonathon hated this man's condescending use of the phrase "my boy." Jonathon was not his boy; in all honesty, he wasn't even Valentine's boy. He was his own person. He was already a more capable man than this old cop who was afraid of a six-year-old. And he would become better, smarter, stronger than even his father with time.

"You see, my boy," Jameson began. Jonathon tried to block out those two offensive words, but they drilled into his brain. My boy. My boy. My boy. The phrase burrowed its way into the center of his mind until he felt like he had to explode to get it out. So explode he did.

Without being fully conscious of his actions, Jonathon lashed out at the old man. He grabbed his hideous tie and brought his head down to the metal table with a resounding crack. Jameson swatted the boy aside, throwing him into the wall. Jonathon split his lip against the cinderblock. The detective ran for the door, screaming for help. The six-year-old grabbed Detective Jameson's blue pen from the table and stabbed his jugular with it. The detective's last words were garbled. "What is it, my boy?" Jonathon mocked. "I'm sorry, my boy. I can't hear you." Jameson's eyes were wide as they stared into the eyes of his killer, the empty shards of obsidian that held no remorse. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. The police burst into the room as Jameson went limp under the tiny murderer. Jonathon stood above the body. He looked up at the officers and grinned a feral smile, his face covered in blood, his front tooth missing.

* * *

**Is Jonathon creepy or what?  
**

**Jocelyn is doing something called art therapy in this chapter, hence the name of the story. Art therapy comes in a few different forms, but Jocelyn's using it as a way to get Clary to talk about her home life, since Clary's three and not the most loquacious person in the world. This is a real technique used by CPS, Big Brothers Big Sisters, and other organizations to get kids to talk about their circumstances. It seemed fitting, since both Clary and Jocelyn are artists**

**Thanks again for reading! I really wasn't expecting such quick and positive feedback. 85 views from 13 different countries? Six reviews in two and a half days? And two followers, and one favorite? Mind-blowing. I love you all. It seriously made my day. You guys are absolutely magnificent!**


	3. How Did It Feel?

Jocelyn's fingers trembled as she dialed the familiar number. She paced the length of the hallway outside of the room which held her precious Clary as she listened to the ringing. _Please pick up. Please pick up._

"Hello?" a gruff voice answered. Jocelyn paused, the air leaving her lungs in a rush as she sighed in relief.

"Oh, Luke," she breathed. "Luke, they found her. She's alive. She's okay."

"Who is? Jocelyn, you're not saying—"

"Luke," she interrupted. "Clary's alive. And she's here. Not ten feet away from me." Jocelyn looked through the window into the room where Clary sat drawing with a sixty-four pack of crayons.

"Jocelyn, are you sure? It's been a couple of years. What if it's not really her?"

"Valentine's here too. And Jonathon."

"Oh, God. Do you know if Valentine's experiments worked? Is Jonathon…" Luke trailed off, not wanting to voice the possibilities.

"I don't know, Luke." Jocelyn wiped the tears that were falling readily down her freckled cheeks. "I haven't seen him yet. My main focus right now is Clary."

"Where are you?"

"Binghamton, New York. Police station."

"I'm on my way." The line went dead.

"Thank you, Luke," Jocelyn whispered into the air. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath to compose herself, and went back into Clary's room.

**ooo**

The old lieutenant looked at Valentine with steely eyes. "Mr. Morgenstern," he began. "Do you understand why you're here?"

Valentine smirked evilly. "Do enlighten me, officer."

"You're accused of child abuse. You're also suspected of performing grotesque medical experiments that alter brain activity."

"I was acquitted years ago."

"We think you've started your research again."

"This is all very interesting, officer, but you've yet to share any incriminating evidence."

"Your daughter has told one of our consultants that you beat her."

"She's three years old and extremely imaginative. I've spanked her occasionally, I'll admit, but I don't beat my children. That's downright barbaric."

"Then how do you explain the bruises covering her arms?"

"Her brother. He's a rowdy child, but he does care for her."

"Speaking of Jonathon, he seems emotionally…" the officer trailed off, searching for the right word. "Emotionally disconnected. Last I heard, he hadn't responded to the officer who was questioning him at all."

Valentine straightened almost imperceptibly, his chest swelling with pride. "What can I say?" He smiled. "Jonathon is a private person."

"It's more than that. He doesn't seem right in the head. We think that you—"

"Experimented on him?" Valentine interrupted. "That's absurd. I told you, I was acquitted."

"I don't care. I think you did something to him. I think—"

"Lieutenant Stevens!" A young officer burst through the door. "Lieutenant Stevens!"

"What is it, Fitz? I'm conducting an interrogation."

Fitz was shaking. His voice cracked as he explained that he needed to speak with the older officer alone immediately.

Lieutenant Stevens glared at Valentine as he stood up and walked outside. Valentine raised his shackled hand in a mocking wave, wiggling his scarred fingers at the man. "Don't worry, lieutenant. I'll be here when you get back."

Glaring at the young cop, Stevens said, "This had better be important, Fitz."

Fitz swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "The boy. Jonathon. He—he murdered Detective Jameson. Stabbed him in the throat with a pen."

"How the hell did that happen?" Stevens asked incredulously. "You know what? Never mind. Tell me you have him in custody."

"We do, sir."

Lieutenant Stevens shook his head. "My God. What is the world coming to?"

**ooo**

Jocelyn looked at the boy in the containment room. She couldn't believe how much he had changed in three short years. His collar was still stained with blood—Jameson's blood. The boy's fair hair reflected the harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs. His dark, hooded eyes stared stoically ahead, unblinking. His manacled hands stretched out in front of him on the table, toying with the chains absently. He looked up as one of the consulting psychiatrists entered the room.

"Hello, Jonathon," the stout man said kindly. "My name is Dr. Morris."

Jonathon said nothing as he stared straight ahead.

Morris shuffled some papers around, spreading out the report in front of him. He readjusted his lopsided glasses and asked, "Do you remember killing Detective Jameson?"

"Yes," Jonathon answered mechanically. "I stabbed his neck with a pen."

"You did. Why did you kill him?"

"He was condescending. Kept calling me 'his boy.' I don't belong to anyone." _Except maybe Clarissa_, he added silently.

"I see." Dr. Morris wrote a few things down in his notepad. "And how did it feel when you killed him, Jonathon?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Your emotions, Jonathon. Describe your emotions leading up to Jameson's death."

"I suppose I was angry. No, not really angry. Affronted. Annoyed that he called me his boy, because he was wrong and presumptuous. Killing him felt good. It made me feel powerful. Strong."

More scribbled notes. "Do you regret killing him?"

"No." Jonathon paused, then added, "Although I suppose it does complicate things a bit." He smiled, but Dr. Morris didn't laugh.

"How do you feel about your father?"

"He's wise, but not infallible. I will overcome him someday. Be more powerful. He has a goal, but I have a vision." Jonathon knew it was folly to divulge his innermost thoughts and—he assumed they were feelings, though he couldn't be entirely sure. But he was still a boy, only six years old, and he wanted to talk to someone about his ideas. Clarissa was too sweet, untainted by the knowledge of true, glorious power, burdened by the weight of frivolous emotion. His father was too sentimental, too morally absolute. He truly thought he was doing the right thing, even if his methods were unorthodox. He would be threatened by Jonathon's plans and ideas, for the boy cared nothing about ethics, emotions, sentimentality. He cared only for power, craved it as a man exile craves his birthplace. Jonathon felt as if he was eking out a half-life in subservience to Valentine, but he would bide his time and do his father's bidding until he was strong enough, prepared enough to do what he must. He would be victorious.

"What is your vision, Jonathon?"

The young boy smiled his gap-toothed grin. "Hell on earth," he said simply.

Behind the one-way mirror, Jocelyn gasped. Twelve feet away from her sat a six-year-old murderer who felt no shame or remorse. He felt nothing at all. The compassion, emotion, the humanity had vanished. She shuddered to think of Valentine's experiments. This boy, this_ monster_, was no longer her child. "My son," she whispered into the empty room, placing her hand on the window that separated her from her offspring. A sob wracked her body before she could contain it. "My little boy is dead."

* * *

**Hey everyone! Where to begin? 13 reviews, 11 follows, 3 favorites? And almost 300 reads? Guys. My mind is adequately boggled for the rest of my life. THANK YOU. SO. FREAKING. MUCH.  
**

**Sorry it took so long to update! But I'm finally done with AP tests, which is good. And school's winding down, although I still have a ton of projects and major grades due the next couple of weeks. I should be able to update on weekends, but I'm not making any definitive promises because I don't want to let y'all down if I can't update for whatever reason.**

**So yeah. Thanks so much for reading! You are amazing and I love you.**


	4. What if She Forgot Everything?

**Thank you The Glitch for your review! I realized I had missed a two sections when I was copying and pasting this. It definitely made the transition from chapter 3 to 4 kind of confusing. This is why I love your reviews! Seriously, call me out on stuff! Here is the real (complete) chapter 4.**

* * *

Luke rushed through the doors of the police station, searching frantically for Jocelyn. He found her slumped in a hard plastic chair, eyes glazed over as if she'd lost touch with reality.

"Jocelyn?" Luke asked hesitantly. She looked like a fragile porcelain doll, like she could shatter at any moment. "Jocelyn, I'm here."

"Luke!" Jocelyn came out of her trance with a confused blink. "I thought you wouldn't be here for a few hours. It's a long drive." Her voice was hollow, numb.

"I sped," he answered simply. "How are they?"

She looked away. "Valentine's definitely run experiments on Jonathon's mind. The boy killed an adult cop with a ballpoint pen and didn't even blink. He says he wants to create "hell on earth." He's a monster."

"And Clary?" Luke asked, hoping against hope that she was still the sweet baby girl he remembered.

"They're running tests now, but she seems fine. I don't think he could bear to hurt her."

"Thank God," whispered Luke. "And Valentine?"

"He's going away for a long time. And Jonathon will go to a psychiatric facility. I'll take Clary back to Brooklyn with me. We'll live a normal life."

"So it's over."

"Yeah," Jocelyn smiled. "For now."

**ooo**

Valentine smiled charismatically at the young officer. "Can I call a friend?"

"I-I'm not sure," the boy stuttered. "Let me check on that."

"Come on. I'm missing tea with a lady friend of mine and I want to let her know I won't be able to make it since I'm…otherwise occupied." He gestured to his handcuffed wrists. "You understand how it is with women. You miss one date and all of a sudden you're just like every man who's ever cheated on them."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," the officer agreed.

"It'll take two minutes at the most."

The boy hesitated, then nodded. "Make it quick," he said, handing him a phone. "I'll be back in one minute."

"Thank you so much." Valentine dialed a number quickly and turned away from the cop's watchful gaze.

"Talk to me," came a man's voice from the other end.

"Hey, sweetie," Valentine began in a false kind voice. "I'm so sorry, but I'm not going to be able to make it to tea today."

"Do you want me to initiate plan B?"

"Thanks for being so understanding, dear. I'll try to talk to you tomorrow afternoon. Does 3:30 work for you?" Valentine gave the cop a thumbs-up.

"3:30 PM. Gotcha. I'll see you then."

"I'll be sure to tell Jonathon you say hi."

"Will he be with you?"

"Yes, darling. Alright, I've got to go. Don't forget."

"Never, sir. I'm here to serve you."

Valentine clicked off. "Thank you so much, officer—" He squinted at the young officer's nametag. "Michaels. Women can be so difficult."

"Don't worry, Mr. Morgenstern. I understand."

Valentine smiled. "I figured you would."

**ooo**

_Three Days Later **(A/N: This is where the original upload starts. Sorry for the mistake!)**  
_

**ooo**

Luke glanced at the beautiful woman in the passenger seat. She was twisting her thin fingers around anxiously, trying to expel nervous energy. Her eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, where she could see her daughter sleeping in the backseat. She sighed quietly.

"Luke," Jocelyn began. "How am I supposed to tell her?"

"I don't think there's any formula for this." He shook his head. "Jocelyn, her father and brother were _murderers_. They were on their way to _prison_. And now they're _dead_. That's not something you can just casually throw into a conversation over tea," he said wryly.

"I'm going to need something a lot stronger than tea."

"My point is, there's no easy way to say it. But there's no avoiding it, either. Clary's young, but she's smart. She's going to wonder why her family's not coming with her."

"What if she couldn't remember them?" Jocelyn asked suddenly.

Luke was startled. "Jocelyn, what are you saying?"

"Valentine and Jonathon were killed in a car crash on their way to the state penitentiary, right? An explosion. Everything was incinerated. Just—" Her voice cracked. "Just their bones were left." She swallowed. "There aren't any other relatives, no next of kin. No one to tell her what really happened."

"I don't like the sound of this."

"What if she just forgot everything about them?"

"Jocelyn, you can't make her forget three years of her life." Luke was exasperated. "And even if you could, it's not right. You can't go messing with someone's brain. Then you're no better than Valentine."

Jocelyn recoiled, as if he had physically hit her. "Don't you ever," she said harshly. "Compare me to _him_. I'm trying to help my daughter, protect her. I'll tell her when she's ready, when it's safe. He could still have loyal followers who see him as a sort of martyr for the cause now. Her safety is the main priority."

"Fine," Luke sighed. "But we still haven't addressed the 'how.' You can't just erase the past."

"No, I can't." She already had her phone out and was dialing a number. "But I know someone who can."

**ooo**

Jacob looked up as he heard a car coming up the drive. It had been weeks since his father had come home, and he was eager to finally talk with the man. The servants were decent company, but they weren't his father. Jacob wondered if his father would be proud of his progress with Fur Elise or Milton's Paradise Lost or Nietzsche's philosophy. He was trying really hard to do a good job.

Valentine opened the door and smiled, but that wasn't what Jacob was looking at.

"Jacob," Valentine began. "This is your new brother, Jonathon. We'll all be a family from now on."

Jonathon eyed Jacob with cold, unflinching eyes. Turning to Valentine, he said, "Father, is this the other boy? He seems…" Jonathon gave the boy a quick once-over again. "Weak."

Jacob bristled. "I'm strong! I can punch and kick and fight like a man," he protested.

Jonathon smiled. "We'll see, little brother. We'll see."

**ooo**

"Is this going to hurt, mommy?" Clary asked, her voice small and scared as she eyed the needle at the end of the frightening machine.

Mommy. Jocelyn Fray loved the sound of that. When she had signed the custody papers and offered the younger version of herself a sketchpad, a suitcase, and a smile, she had explained to Clary that, yes, she was in fact her biological mother and, yes, she would of course take her home to be her daughter forever and, no, Jonathon and Valentine couldn't come with them, and no, she wasn't entirely sure why, but she knew it had something to do with how mean they were. "It'll be an all-girls party," Jocelyn had whispered conspiratorially. "I'd like that," Clary had whispered back.

Now Jocelyn could only offer vague reassurances to her daughter because she had no idea if this would hurt. She could only hope that Magnus knew what he was doing as he maneuvered the arm of the strange machine to Clary's nostril. It would then travel to her brain and completely cut off memories of her father and brother from her conscious self. She would just be Clary Fray, a normal girl from Brooklyn who lived with her mom and loved to draw.

Magnus looked to Jocelyn for confirmation. Upon seeing her terse nod, he smiled at the little girl. "Clare-bear, sweetie, I'm going to give you a little shot. It might pinch a little, but it will be over like that." He snapped his ring-clad fingers. "Then, you'll go to sleep. When you wake up, you and your mom will go out for ice cream. Does that sound okay?"

Clary nodded bravely. "I'm ready."

* * *

**Hey guys!** **I don't know where to begin. Every time I'm awed by the amazing feedback, you guys go and blow my mind again. Seriously. The feels! THANK YOU. And I know this chapter's a little shorter, but I'm starting to shift the focus from the whole to just Clary. I think the next chapter will have the last little prologue bit in it (Jace-centric!); then we'll get into the real story. Any and all ideas, comments, and critiques are welcome. You guys absolutely make my day every time I see a new review/follow/favorite/view. You rock, and I love you!**


	5. The Birth of Jace Lightwood

**Normally I hate author's notes at the beginning of a chapter, so I'll make this brief.**

**If you've read the revised Chapter 4, skip this and go read Chapter 5.**

**If you haven't read the revised Chapter 4, go read it now. Or don't. I missed the first two sections when I uploaded it the first time. ****(Thanks again to The Glitch for pointing that out!)** If you're too lazy to read it, here's what happens:

**Luke runs into police station like a total boss. Jocelyn's all upset, but she pulls it together because she rocks. She tells Luke that Valentine did freaky-deaky mind experiments on Jonathon, and that now he's a monster. (He even killed a guy with a ballpoint pen! Scary kid!) Valentine's going to prison, Jonathon's going to a crazy-people place. Clary seems to be fine, but they're running tests now. Jocelyn's taking Clary back to Brooklyn to live a normal, happy life.**

**Valentine sweet-talks a kid cop into letting him use a phone to talk to a "lady friend." He actually calls one of his henchmen (whom I was too lazy to name) and schedules something for himself and Jonathon (which you can later (hopefully) deduce was an escape from a prison transport thingy).**

**And then the originally uploaded chapter four starts.  
**

**And without further ado, onto the story!**

* * *

Jacob spit blood into the dirt and grimaced. He was so sick of Jonathon beating him in these sparring sessions. Ever since his father had shown up with the elder boy in tow, Jonathon had been nothing but nasty. He blamed his new brother for the fact that his sister had been taken from him. He blamed Jacob for the recent relocation, too. When Jacob had protested that he had needed to give up his home to move to some foreign mansion in the Adirondacks too, Jonathon had kicked him in the side, muttered something about spoiled brats, and walked away.

"Get up, little brother," Jonathon taunted now. "What, the golden boy can't take a punch?"

"Shut up!" the four-year-old roared as he staggered clumsily to his feet. He snarled at the older boy and darted forward, trying to shove the older boy down.

Jonathon just laughed and sidestepped him easily. "You know you can never beat me, right? I've killed people before. I can kill you too. The only thing protecting you right now is how much Valentine adores you. I've never understood why."

"Maybe it's because I'm not a psychopath," Jacob muttered under his breath.

"It's true, you're not. That makes you weak. You care too much, little one. So _emotional_." Jonathon snorted. "You love too easily. You love Valentine; you love that damn bird of yours; hell, I bet you even love me."

"Don't you care about anything?"

"To love is to destroy," Jonathon quoted their father, almost without thinking. Then he tilted his head to the side for a moment, considering. "I love myself," he decided. "And maybe my sister. But she abandoned me. And now I'm stuck with you, weakling." He slapped Jacob, who didn't flinch this time.

"Not even Dad?"

"Valentine is a means to an end. Once I've learned everything I can from him, once I've surpassed him in skill, I'll kill him. And when he's out of the way, I'll kill you too." Jonathon smiled faintly at the idea.

"And then what are you going to do?" Jacob asked, eyes wide. He didn't doubt that Jonathon would murder his only family in cold blood the moment he had the chance.

"I'll find my sister, and she'll sit at my right hand as I become the most powerful man on earth." Jonathon's grin became maniacal as he pictured his future.

"What's so special about your little sister anyways?" Why did Jonathon love her so much, when he could hardly tolerate me? Jacob had always wondered. Why am I never enough?

"I can't explain it, really. There's something about her. She's different. Special. She's sweet and innocent, but she's powerful. She's got potential." The only time Jonathon's eyes looked alive was when he was talking about world domination or his little sister, Jacob noticed idly.

"Is she pretty?" Jacob asked.

"The most beautiful creature you've ever laid eyes on. And she's mine," Jonathon warned. "She's all mine."

**2006**

Valentine smiled at his now-fourteen-year-old son. "Jonathon, do you understand how the Alteramente works?"

"Yes, father." Jonathon eyed the apparatus coolly. He had spent much of his life in that chair as his father had performed experiments on his brain with the machine.

"Good. Now practice." He motioned to a feeble man bound in chains. "No one will miss this poor soul. Besides, he owes me a debt."

The man lifted his head to protest. "Mr. Morgenstern, I'm so sorry," he rasped. "If you'd just given me more time, I could—"

"Silence," Valentine shouted. "My son, he's all yours."

Jonathon started toward the man, who flinched away. "Please, sir. Please, I beg you. Not that infernal device. Please, don't—" The protests died on his lips as Jonathon punched him in the jaw, knocking a few teeth loose. He then moved the man to the chair, strapped down his forearms, his ankles, and his head, and positioned the Alteramente's needle to the base of the man's skull.

"Please," the man whispered. Jonathon grinned as he turned the knob to the 'on' position. The needle poked through the man's bald head and went into his brain. His screams died down, his eyes rolled back in his head, his arms stopped thrashing. But his heart beat on.

Valentine watched proudly as Jonathon positioned a second needle at the man's nose and used the controls to move it into his brain. Jonathon looked at a scan of the man's brain as he worked, the hours going by as he switched off parts of the brain, closed and opened synapses, altered the man's mind.

Hours later, Jonathon stepped back, pulling both needles out of the man's head. After undoing the restraints, he administered a dose of adrenaline and the man woke up slowly.

"What is your name?" Jonathon asked.

"I—I'm not sure. I'm sorry," the man replied.

"My name is Jonathon Morgenstern."

The man stood up from the chair and bowed deeply. "It would be my honor to serve you, master."

Jonathon nodded. "Fetch me the revolver on the table over there." He motioned to the credenza.

The man brought the gun back and held it out to Jonathon.

"No, no. I don't need it." The man looked vaguely puzzled but nodded, holding the revolver at his side. "I want you to bring the gun to your head and pull the trigger."

"Yes, sir." The blood splattered on the chair as the man collapsed at Jonathon's feet.

Valentine clapped. "Well, son, it was a bit messier than I would have liked, but you did it! You've mastered the Alteramente. Think of what we can do with this technology. We can build soldiers who don't disobey orders, doctors and teachers who immediately learn their skills without decades of schooling, spies with listening devices implanted into their brains. Think of all the great changes we can make. You and me, son, we'll make a better world. Together." Valentine smiled. "You know, with a little more practice, you could be as good as me."

Jonathon grinned. "Perhaps I could start right now," he said, pulling a sedative off of the table beside him.

"I think you've had enough for one day." Valentine grinned. "Tomorrow, though. And the next day, and the next day."

"No," Jonathon said as he stuck the needle into his father's arm. "Now."

**OOO**

Jacob had heard screams from the basement for years. He knew that Valentine and Jonathon did nasty experiments down there. He went down there once, a few years ago, when he heard a woman's high-pitched calls for help. He had tried to help her, but Valentine got there before he could completely undo her chains.

"Jacob," Valentine had said. "You don't understand. This is all for the greater good. We're making a better world. It just takes some trial and error."

The woman had screamed when Valentine put her in the chair, begging for death instead. "It will come," he had promised her. He stuck needles into her brain, not bothering with sedation. She screamed in agony. He pressed a button on the control board and she suddenly went limp, her expression vacant, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

"Thank you for your service. Your country thanks you." She looked at him blankly.

Then he killed her.

"That," he had said after it was done. "Is what happens to people who disobey. Jacob, you're my son, and I love you. And I need your help with these experiments. I put you in this chair when you were little. I made you better. I made Jonathon better, too. I need both of you here together so I can monitor your progress. But, if you try to interfere with these experiments, these quests for progress, again, I'll have to terminate you. You are not indispensable. I can kill you, if I need to. Do not test me."

"Yes, father," Jacob had said quietly. "It won't happen again."

Now, as Jacob listened to the cries coming from downstairs, he recognized his father's voice. He realized that Jonathon must have felt like he had surpassed Valentine's skill level with that machine. He remembered Jonathon's words from so long ago: Once I've learned everything I can from him, I'll kill him. And when he's out of the way, I'll kill you too.

Jacob thought he had a couple of hours while Jonathon had his fun before his adoptive brother came after him. He tried not to listen to his father's screams. There was nothing he could do to save him now.

Jacob packed a bag quickly, just the essentials. Some money, a change of clothes, a toothbrush. Then he grabbed his father's keys from the bowl on the kitchen table.

He found the Lincoln town car in the garage. He'd driven it once or twice around the property, but never long distances. Taking a deep breath, he turned the key in the ignition and listened as the car hummed to life. He smiled. Jacob pressed down on the accelerator and sped off down the driveway to a new life.

He didn't look back.

**OOO**

Jonathon smiled at his father's dumb expression. What a work of art! He marveled at his new creation.

"Do you know who you are?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, sir."

"My name is Jonathon Morgenstern. I am your master, and you are my servant. Understood?"

"Yes, master."

"Good. Now fetch the boy upstairs and bring him down here."

Valentine bowed obediently and went upstairs. As he sat in his chair—he preferred to think of it as a throne—he wondered at how easily someone could alter the mind. His whole body thrummed with energy; he had never felt so powerful. He could control anyone with a few alterations to their brain. He wasn't as noble as his father had been; he didn't want to create a better world. No, he wanted to be the most powerful man in the world. He wanted nations to bow before him; he wanted to control presidents and prime ministers and the Pope himself. He wanted power, and he would stop at nothing to get it.

First, however, he had to get rid of a few obstacles. Namely, his pesky "brother." The boy was too good to be a part of Jonathon's world. He hated Jacob. And now was a convenient time for his death.

"Master?" Valentine questioned hesitantly.

"Yes, what is it?"

"The boy…" Valentine began. He swallowed nervously. "There is no boy upstairs. The house is empty."

Jonathon smiled wryly. "Run away, little brother. Run away like the coward you are. If I ever find you, I'll kill you," he whispered to himself.

To Valentine, he said, "No matter. We have more pressing issues. Come with me."

**OOO**

Jacob had ditched the car a few days ago. Now, he was hungry and tired and completely lost. He saw a huge gothic church up ahead, its towering steeples reaching to a full moon in a cloudless sky. It was beautiful, and its lights still shone, even at eleven o'clock at night.

Jacob opened the huge wooden door, carved intricately with the likenesses of saints. He walked up the aisle until he found a pew he liked. He lay down and tried to fall asleep. His stomach growled.

"Hungry, kid?" a voice asked from behind him.

Jacob jumped up. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize anyone was here. I'll leave." He gathered his pack and stood up.

"Now wait a minute, kid. No one said anything about leaving." The man stood up from the shadows. His hair was whitish gray, and his face was wrinkled. His eyes shone brightly in the dim light and he seemed to always be wearing the ghost of a grin. "I asked if you were hungry."

Jacob eyed the man for a moment before his stomach rumbled again. He blushed lightly. "I guess."

"Well then come on, kid. I'm sure we have leftovers. Phoebe makes a mean lasagna."

"I love lasagna," Jacob admitted. "Who's Phoebe?"

"My wife. She helps me run this church. We live in the back."

"You two live in a church?" Jacob was shocked.

The man chuckled. "Indeed we do. But it's not just us. My son and his family live here, too. They have two kids, Alexander and Isabelle, who are about your age and one little baby boy named Max."

"Oh," Jacob nodded, trailing behind the old man. "I'm sorry, I never got your name, sir."

"Silly me," the man smiled. "I'm Andrew Lightwood. And you are?"

Jacob thought for a moment. He didn't really want to remember that he was Valentine's son, Jonathon's sort-of brother. He wanted a new life, and with that came a new name.

"Jace," he said after a moment's hesitation. "My name is Jace."

"Do you have a last name, Jace?"

"No, sir. Just Jace."

"I see," Andrew said, and Jace could tell that he did see; he saw Jace's loneliness, his lack of identity, his sense of despair. "Well, Jace, how would you like having the last name Lightwood?"

"What do you mean?"

"How would you like to become a Lightwood and live here with us, be a part of our family?"

Jace smiled shyly. "I think I'd like that a lot."

"Well then it's settled." Andrew smiled. "Jace Lightwood, welcome to your new life."

* * *

**Hello, lovelies. Thank you SO FREAKING MUCH. Over 1,000 reads? And 22 reviews, 10 favorites, 24 follows? GUYS. STAHP. I CAN'T EVEN. But really, you all make my day, and I love every single one of you. If you liked it, let me know? Or don't. Really, it's up to you. But I really, really, really appreciate all of your support.  
**


	6. It's a Pleasure to Meet You

**Late Summer, 2012**

Clary danced down the street, bopping her head to the music blasting from her headphones. She had just finished her first Tisch class, and she was absolutely ecstatic. Her teacher had loved her work. He had even invited Clary to the prestigious end-of-term art show, meant for the full-time students. He promised her she could have three pieces in the show on two conditions: She had to maintain the skill she had shown in her portfolio, and she was able to finish them in time.

To celebrate, her best friend Simon had invited her out for Mexican food at one of their favorite holes-in-the-wall, Nacho Mama. But she couldn't sit still long enough for a cab or the subway, so she opted to walk—or rather dance—her way to the little restaurant.

Clary spotted a glint of light on the pavement as she twirled down the sidewalk. A penny. Upon closer inspection, Clary saw that it was heads. Today was a good day indeed. She stooped down to pick it up. When she straightened up, she spotted a colossal gothic structure behind a wrought iron fence on the other side of the street. She gasped. It was beautiful.

She scolded herself for missing such a gargantuan work of art. Somehow, she always lost herself inside her own head, her own fantastical world. But this mansion was lovely. She dug around in her messenger bag, pulling out a set of charcoal pencils and her well-loved sketchbook. Simon would have to wait.

She was working on the upper left window when someone pulled her headphones out.

"Little girl, that's a pretty decent picture," drawled a tall blonde boy behind her, "but I'm wondering why exactly you're drawing my house."

"What?" Clary asked, startled. "You live here? I thought it was a church or a museum or something."

The boy smirked. "It used to be a church, but it's been decommissioned, so to speak." He paused contemplatively. "I guess now it's a bit of a museum."

"But I thought you said you lived here." Clary was intrigued by this boy who lived in a church-museum-mansion.

"I do, little girl." He smiled mysteriously. His left incisor was slightly chipped.

Clary huffed. "My name is not 'little girl.' And I'm hardly a kid."

"So are you one of my adoring fans? A stalker who can't get enough of all this?" He gestured to his admittedly handsome physique while shooting Clary a wink.

Clary shuddered and asked, "Conceited, much?"

"With good reason." There was that damn smirk again.

"To answer your previous questions," Clary said, "no. I'm not some crazy lady who's madly in love with you. I just saw a pretty building and decided to draw it. I have no idea who you are, and, quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to. You're too…" She thought of the word her mother would use to describe boys like him. "Supercilious."

He raised an eyebrow, and she was instantly jealous. "You mean gorgeous."

She would never admit it to him—his ego clearly didn't need a growth spurt—but yes. He certainly wasn't ugly. He was tall with a slim, muscular build. His graceful and leonine face was framed by fine golden-blonde hair, curling at the end. His narrow mouth was stretched into a small, sly grin. His eyes were pure molten gold, and they were…staring right at her. "Enjoy the view?"

"Not even a little. You're detracting from the beauty of the architecture." She beamed at him, then began to pack up her art supplies.

"Where are you going, Little Red?" He looked almost as if he didn't want her to leave.

"I can't concentrate with you talking so much. Besides, I'm not going to draw your house with you standing there. I feel weird."

"Well, do you want something to eat or drink really quickly? It's a personal rule that I never let a pretty girl leave my house hungry." He grinned wickedly, indicating the double meaning behind his words. Clary blushed at the adjective 'pretty.' He was just being a flirt, no reason to be flattered.

She _was_ hungry though. She checked her phone, thinking it was almost dinnertime. Twelve text messages and seven calls. Simon! She had completely forgotten.

"Crap, crap, crap." She dialed his number frantically, ignoring the boy's curious glance. "Simon!" she cried when he picked up.

"Hey Clary," he said with a resigned voice.

"I'm so, so sorry! There was this pretty gothic church, so I decided to draw it, then I met a guy who lives there and he's been a real pain in the—"

"Hey!" the boy interjected. "I'm great company."

"Anyway," she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I got distracted, and I'll find a way to make it up to you. Are you still at Nacho Mama?"

"Of course, Fray."

"Alright. I'll be there in twenty minutes." She paused, considering the implications of what she was about to say. "And, as an I'm-so-sorry-I'm-such-a-horrible-friend gesture, I'll even go to Eric's poetry reading with you afterwards." Clary cringed at the prospect of listening to the word vomit for the next few hours.

"Really?" Simon audibly brightened up. "Awesome. You rock, Fray. I'll see you soon."

"See you, Lewis." Clary hung up. She looked at the guy she had spent the past ten minutes with. "Well," she said, rocking back on her heels, "it's been real. But I need to run. I guess I'll see you around." She reconsidered. "Or not. Probably not." She blew a strand of hair out of her face with mild frustration. Why was she so awkward around people?

"I wouldn't count me out so easily." He grinned—a real grin—for the first time since she'd started talking with him. "I never caught your name, Little Red."

She looked at him thoughtfully, then answered, "Clary." For some inexplicable reason she trusted him. "I'm Clary Fray."

"Like the herb," he murmured. "Jace Lightwood. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fray." He bowed and tipped an imaginary hat. She laughed—a clear, happy sound he relished. "Hopefully I'll see you later." His eyes held a promise.

Clary smiled back at him. "Maybe," she said. Then she walked away.

He grinned one final time, then turned and headed for his front door. She was something else. Something special, he mused.

**OOO**

Clary entered Nacho Mama twenty-five minutes later. She saw Simon sitting at a tiny table in the corner, a plate of mostly-devoured nachos pushed to the opposite side. He was on a tablet, typing wildly.

She saw a waitress come up to his table and offer him some more water. The woman gave him a flirty smile and slid him a napkin with some writing on it. Simon didn't even notice: He was too absorbed in his online forum or whatever.

So the waitress was hitting on Simon. And why shouldn't she? Clary took this chance to look at her best friend closely. He was cute, she guessed, in a nerdy sort of way. His curly dark brown hair was disheveled, his large-frame hipster glasses askew on the bridge of his slightly downturned nose, and he sported a gamer t-shirt.

"Hey, Lewis," she said, when she reached his table. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"It's alright, Fray." He shrugged. "I know you. You live on your own planet. I don't blame you for it."

In that moment she loved Simon with his easy-going nature, his readiness to forgive her flaws.

"You're amazing, Simon. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do. But it is nice to be reminded of the fact every once in a while." He grinned openly at her, no sly smirks like Jace. Clary could have kicked herself. She shouldn't have been thinking about some random wacko on the street. She was here with Simon.

"So," she said, "that waitress over there likes you."

"Who?" Simon looked up, head swiveling comically like a cartoon owl.

Clary grinned. "Blondie over there." She motioned to the waitress who had slid Simon the napkin. "She gave you her number."

Simon's eyes were huge. "When? And how on earth did I miss it?"

Clary waved the napkin in front of his face. "You were probably too involved with updating the latest Dungeons and Dragons wikia or whatever you do on that tablet."

"I don't do anything on it. I just carry it around to complete the hipster look." He winked at Clary, then looked more closely at the napkin. "Huh. 'Polly.' What do you think?"

"Polly would definitely meet Eric's criteria. She's got a rockin' bod." Clary smiled wryly. The idea of Simon dating anyone filled her with an unfamiliar dread, but she wasn't sure why.

"Yeah, I'm not sure I like Eric's criteria. It's not comprehensive enough. I actually wanted to talk to you about that." Simon was quickly turning a faint greenish color.

"You okay, Simon? You look a little sick."

"Yeah it's just…" He looked down and saw his watch. "Never mind, we're going to be late for the poetry reading." Clary grimaced, and Simon smiled at her. "You promised."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Let's go."

When they reached the door, Clary looked up at her best friend. "Simon," she said, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

He smiled down at her. "I know, Fray. And the same goes for you."

"Alright. If we're being entirely honest with each other," she started. Simon seemed hopeful, for what she wasn't sure. "I really don't want to go to this poetry reading."

Simon looked like a deflated balloon, but he smiled anyway. "But you love me, so you'll suffer through it."

"That's entirely true. But I retain the right to complain about it as much as I want." She grabbed his elbow as they walked together, their steps perfectly in sync, their laughter harmonizing as it floated over the New York skyline.

* * *

**Hey guys!**

For those of you too lazy to do the math, Clary is about 17 and Jace is about 18.

As always, thanks so much for reading/reviewing/following/favoriting/being awesome. I really appreciate it! If you love it, hate it, or feel nauseated by it, let me know! I live for your feedback. You are all lovely.  



	7. She Could Karate Chop Us in Half

Clary huffed in frustration. She kept sketching ideas, but nothing seemed right. She had yet to come up with a concentration for the Tisch art show. She had thought of skylines, flowers, architecture, friends, landscapes, animals. Nothing seemed right. She crumpled her latest sketch, a scene inspired from her mother's stories of foreign lands filled with rolling hills and lakes that glittered like mirrors, and threw it at the trash can. She missed. It landed by her mother's feet instead. Jocelyn leaned down and picked it up, straightening out the paper.

"Clary," she said in a kind voice, "are you still having trouble figuring out your theme for Tisch?"

Clary grunted and flung her sketchbook aside. "It's so frustrating! I don't know what to do." Usually inspiration came to her easily, but now she was entirely lost.

"Well, you're using my ideas instead of your own, for starters." Jocelyn sat down on the couch next to her daughter. "What are you thinking about right now?"

"How I'm a terrible artist who will never accomplish anything ever."

Jocelyn laughed. "I mean, what can you not get out of your head? What plagues your mind at night, when you're trying to sleep?"

Clary immediately thought of the beautiful, mysterious Jace and his beautiful, mysterious mansion. She cursed her brain for conjuring up an image of him, looking dashing in the late afternoon sunlight as he told her he'd see her again.

Jocelyn grinned playfully at the look on her daughter's face. "See? You thought of something, or some_one_. Focus on that, and see what comes?"

"Thanks, mom," Clary sighed.

Jocelyn stood up to leave. "I've got to go down to the station and do a few sketches, but I should be home in a few hours. What are your plans for the night?" Clary's mom had worked as a sketch artist for the NYPD for as long as Clary could remember. And sometimes she helped kids in traumatic situations deal with their problems through art. Clary thought it was a pretty amazing job.

"Simon and I are meeting Maia at Luke's bookstore, then going to Java Jones to celebrate her championship for martial arts. Apparently she won some big tournament."

"What martial art does Maia practice again?"

"Judo, karate, tae kwon do…they're all the same to me. The point is, she could kick my butt into the next millennium in a variety of ways. She's got a lot of dangerous tricks stored up in that arsenal of hers."

"I like a girl who can take care of herself." Jocelyn nodded her approval, grabbed her keys, and blew Clary a kiss. She tossed a farewell over her shoulder as she rushed out the door.

Left alone in the colorful apartment, Clary turned back to her work. Jace's eyes floated in her mind like two golden coins. Clary shook her head violently. "Nope, Clary. We are so not going there right now. Or ever. He was just some random guy you will never see again." She thought of him telling her he'd see her later. "Shut up, brain."

"Talking to yourself again?" Simon's voice came from about three inches away from her face.

Clary screamed.

"Simon!" she yelled. "When the hell did you get in here? And why did you have to sneak up on me like that?"

"I got here about twenty seconds ago." He held up his key to her apartment. He'd had it since they were seven. "And you were muttering nonsense to yourself. It was a golden opportunity."

Gold. Again. Clary was losing it. Everything made her think of that stupid Jace and his stupid gold eyes and his stupid gold hair.

"Are you ready to head to Luke's?" Simon asked, snapping his fingers in front of Clary's green eyes. "I really don't want to piss Maia off if we're late. She could karate chop us in half." He gave her a lopsided smile, chuckling a little at his own goofy joke.

Clary grinned back at him and chucked her sketchbook onto the coffee table. "I'm right behind you."

**OOO**

The walk to Luke's was uneventful. Clary and Simon talked about their favorite anime series (they had spent the previous day watching a complete season of it on Netflix), the comics they couldn't wait to read, and Simon's band. Its current name was _Bloodsuckerz_, but it was liable to change without a moment's notice. Clary liked the vampire angle, but the "z" seemed like overkill.

The chimes above the door clanged when they walked into Luke's bookshop. Instantly, Clary relaxed. She loved it here. It always smelled of freshly made coffee and old books. The rows of shelves were overflowing with books ranging from travel guides to encyclopedias to adventure and fantasy novels. The store was dotted with reading nooks, and, when he wasn't manning the counter or taking inventory, Luke was usually in the La-Z-Boy recliner in between the horror and fantasy shelves.

True to his nature, Luke popped his head around the books and waved at the two teens with the hand that wasn't holding a small paperback.

"Hey, Uncle Luke," Clary said as she approached the older man. Luke gave her a pointed look as he rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt up to his elbows. "Sorry! Luke, just Luke. No uncle."

Luke shot Clary a gratified smile. "I love you like family, kiddo. But I'm just your mom's really good friend."

"Friendzoned level: over nine-thousand!" Simon whispered to Clary. She giggled lightly before giving Luke her full attention.

"So, Luke," she said, enunciating his name, "what are you reading?"

"_The Metamorphosis_. Fascinating story about a guy who gets turned into a cockroach." Luke shuddered. "Can you imagine being turned into something else? Another creature entirely? It sounds awful."

Simon nodded his head in agreement. "Especially something so gross. Could you picture yourself as an insect...or a rodent...or a bat?" With each animal, his expression grew more grim.

Clary shook her head at the two boys and their antics. "Is Maia in yet? We were meeting her here."

"Yeah," came a feminine voice from behind the encyclopedias. "And you guys are late. I've been stuck here reading about the lunar cycle." Maia came out, a stern expression on her face. The deep mocha of her eyes swirled angrily and her dark curly hair was coming out of its braids. She looked like some fierce animal waiting to attack its prey.

"Are we in trouble?" asked Clary, surreptitiously moving behind Simon.

"Are you going to—" Simon gulped theatrically. "—Chop our heads off?"

Maia's harsh frown stayed in place only a moment before it wobbled. She was clearly fighting the urge to laugh. Then her face broke into a full smile. "You know I'm just messing with you. But I totally could chop your heads off if I wanted to. Just saying."

Clary mock-bowed to the taller girl, warning her that "with great power comes great responsibility."

Maia laughed, then bowed back. "I shall use my powers wisely."

Simon made a big show of praying for protection in Hebrew while Maia pretended to behead him. Finally, Luke coughed loudly and asked if they were going to the café soon because _some_ people wanted peace and quiet in a bookstore so that they could, you know, _read_. He ushered them all out the front door, waving them away with a grin on his face. He loved those kids. When he couldn't their silhouettes had faded into the night, he closed the door and flipped the sign to "Closed."

Luke wandered through the shelves, fingering the spines of his books lovingly. This wasn't exactly where he pictured himself when he thought of his future fifteen years ago, but he was happy.

His phone buzzed, the sudden noise interrupting the soft sounds of easy listening. He answered it quickly; it was probably Jocelyn. Sure enough, her voice crackled through the speaker. "Luke?" she asked, her voice strained.

"Hi, Jocelyn. What's—"

"Luke, I'm at the police station," she interrupted. The fact that she was there didn't surprise him; she had worked with the NYPD as a sketch artist and art therapist part-time for almost twenty years. "They think someone's copying Valentine's murders."

"A copycat?" Luke questioned, surprised. "Two decades later?"

"I know. It sounds crazy. But someone's messing with people's minds, then making them kill themselves. The autopsies have shown cut synapses and other…alterations to their brains."

"That was his M.O.," he sighed, not needing further explanation. Valentine's "alterations" were gruesome. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure. I know Valentine and Jonathon died seventeen years ago, I saw their burned bones, I read the report, but…" she trailed off, as if her idea was too horrible to say out loud. She steeled herself and continued. "What if they didn't? What if it was staged?"

"Do you want me to look into it? I know Valentine's handiwork. I can come down to the station, look at the brains, see what's going on. Okay?"

"Thank you, Luke," she breathed.

"Anything for you." Then he hung up.

* * *

**Hey guys! **

**One quick order of business: I'm going out of town for two weeks, and I'm not sure when I'll have internet access/time to update. But I'm going to a writing program at a college, so hopefully when I get back you'll notice an improvement (or at least it won't be worse). I'll try to update while I'm there, but I really can't make any promises. I stayed up till 4 AM so that I could finish this chapter and upload it for you, so at least you'll have one chapter. And now I have to wake up in three hours, and I haven't finished packing. Yay for time management! But hey! I'm rambling, and I'm shutting up about my personal problems now.**

**Thanks again for all the lovely support. There was a lot less feedback on the last chapter, but, unless you guys specifically mention that you didn't like it or thought it was awkward or OOC or just disappointing, I'm going to assume it's alright. I could be entirely misinterpreting that, and you could all hate it, but I'm an optimistic person. I do love getting feedback from you, though! It lets me know how I'm doing, what I need to improve, what you guys want more of, that sort of thing.  
**

**Warning: I wrote this in the wee hours of the morning, so there are probably mistakes I'm too tired to catch. Let me know how it was, mistakes and all!  
**

**That's it. You're all beautiful, and I love you.**


	8. Treasure Hunt

Professor Gabriel studied Clary's piece. "I like it," he said after a few minutes. "So what's your concentration?"

Clary exhaled and fingered the hem of her shirt. "That's an excellent question."

He gave her a pointed look. "Clary, I need your concentration idea by this Friday. School starts next Monday, so you won't be coming here every day. If you can't decide on something by then, I'll have to pull you from the show."

Clary sighed. "I understand."

"Your work is excellent. It'd be a shame not to have it in the show." He examined her work again. She'd drawn Jace's house in all its gothic glory. It had taken hours with the soft charcoal to get the shadows right. "Why not do hidden gems in New York, like this? You know, places no one notices despite their beauty? You could open up a whole new world."

"I'll think about it," Clary said, smiling. "It's a good idea."

Gabriel grinned at her. "That's why I'm the teacher. Now get out of here. I dismissed class fifteen minutes ago. Don't you have a summer to enjoy? Or, better yet, some artwork to do?"

Clary resisted the urge to point out that he was the one who'd asked her to stay late. Instead she saluted him and said, "sir, yes sir."

oOo

Once outside, she called Simon. When Simon picked up, Clary heard Eric yelling over the drums in the background and Matt shouting something back. "Hey Clary!" Simon called over the uproar. "What's up?"

She asked if he could help with her art project, but his band had to practice for a gig on Saturday.

Clary sighed, but told him not to worry about it. She could call Maia, who was always up for an adventure in the big city.

"Tell the rest of The Zesty Oranges good luck with the rehearsal," she said. "I'll be there on Saturday, sitting in the corner and pretending I don't know you."

"We're actually Millennium Lint now, but I'm sure the guys appreciate the support," he said drily. Clary heard something crash in the background and a lot of curse words coming from the other end. "Sorry, Fray, but I've got to run. The amp just—No, Eric, don't touch that! Stop messing with the—sweet baby Jesus, where'd all that smoke come from? Christ! Clary, I'll talk to you later." The line went dead.

There's something wrong with that child, Clary thought. She shook her head, picturing the scene in Eric's garage: Simon tripping over coils trying to reach the smoking amp, Eric fiddling with dials, Matt getting the whole thing on video. She let out a small laugh. Those kids were crazy.

Clary wandered toward Central Park as she dialed Maia's number. After four rings, the other girl picked up.

Maia giggled and said, "Jordan, no—I'm talking to Clary."

"Maia?" Clary asked, already fearing where the conversation was going. "Are you free today by any chance? Adventure in the city?"

"Sorry, girl. I'm out of commission right now. It's Jordan's day off and we're—" She broke off with a squeal.

"I get the picture. Maybe some other time." Maia hung up with a distracted 'yeah, sure' before Clary could say goodbye. She was glad Maia had found Jordan, a rookie cop at the station her mom usually worked out of. The two of them were good together.

oOo

Clary had wandered into Central Park by now. She wondered if there were any hidden gems here. Surely these two hundred fifty acres held something she could use for her project.

She decided to go to Azalea Pond. It was one of her favorite spots. The pond was quiet. Most of the people there were bird-watchers, people who treasured the silence and the beauty of nature. Today was no different. There was an older couple with binoculars whispering in excited tones about a Kentucky Warbler. A lone man with his hands stuffed in his pockets stood on the path, looking at the water.

Clary found a spot on the trail and sat down, taking out her sketchpad. She began to draw the scene in front of her in a desperate attempt to gather some inspiration. She tried sketching the birds, the water, the azalea bushes that had stopped blooming in late spring, but nothing worked. She let out a frustrated huff that sent a bird flying. The couple glared at her. She shrugged her shoulders and began to get up.

The man who had been standing in front of the pond laughed at the interaction. Clary looked up to glare at him, but then she realized that he wasn't a man at all. It was Jace, and he was smirking at her.

"Told you we'd meet again," he said as she stalked up to him. He didn't seem to mind that she was glowering at him.

"Are you following me?"

"Red, if I were following you, why was I here first? I'm good, but I'm not that good."

She crossed her arms. "My name is Clary."

"And what a beautiful name it is."

"What are you doing here?"

"When you say 'here,' do you mean 'here' as in Central Park or 'here' as in the great, spiritual question of our purpose here on this planet. If you're asking me whether this is all some cosmic coincidence or if there's a greater meta-ethical purpose to life, well that's a puzzler for the ages. I mean, modern-day reductionism is clearly a fallacious argument, but—"

"I'm leaving."

"I'm here," Jace said, "because I needed a place to think. And then I saw you here, scaring birds away and angering the elderly, and I figured it was a good time to catch up."

Clary shoved her sketchbook in her bag and turned to leave. There was no way she could focus with Jace standing here, and the pond wasn't helping her come up with ideas.

Jace walked with her. "What are you doing here, Clary?"

"I was on a treasure hunt." She blushed. "That sounded better in my head." Clary explained her art project and how she needed ideas soon.

Jace smiled at her. "I'm flattered that my house will be in your final showcase. Does this mean I get an invitation?"

Clary shook her head.

"But I need to make sure you do it justice." He pretended to think for a moment before turning to look at her again. "I might know a few places you could use for your 'hidden beauty' idea. If I show you, will you let me come to the show?"

"You're blackmailing me?"

"Such a crude term. But, if you want to look at it that way, I suppose."

Clary didn't want to give in so easily, but his gold eyes were staring straight at her. She looked away.

"And," Jace added, "every boy wants to go on a treasure hunt. Would you really deny me the simple joys of life?"

"Fine."

Jace grinned wildly at her and grabbed her hand. "This way," he said as he led her north and west, through the park's many trails. Clary had never felt so free.

They stopped in front of a narrow archway built with large stones. It was only five feet across, but it was thirteen feet high. Vines grew in the cracks between the stones. The archway was nestled in between two rock outcrops, nestled amongst the shrubbery of the park. It was a part of the landscape, almost as if it was an extension of the natural rock.

Jace explained that it was called the Ramble Stone Arch and was built mostly from boulders found in Central Park.

"It looks like something out of a Shakespearean drama. An arch from medieval Florence or something."

"It is beautiful," Jace agreed. "But this is also considered to be one of the most picturesque bridges in the whole Park, so it's frequented by a lot of people. It's not exactly hidden. Still, it does show a different side of New York."

Clary was already sketching.

"Maybe there's some way for you to connect crazy, fast-paced, modern New York City of Times Square with the peaceful, natural, almost pastoral New York City of Central Park. You could use a bridge like this one. Or Inscope Arch, Gapstow Bridge, Riftsone Arch—"

"You know a surprising amount about the architecture of Central Park."

"Impressed yet?" At Clary's blank stare, he continued. "My foster brother is studying to be an architect at NYU, so I know all this stuff. He never stops talking about it."

Clary was curious about Jace's family. She had seen his massive home, so she knew he probably didn't live alone. She wondered if he had more foster siblings, if they were all adopted or if it was a blended family, if he liked his home. She wanted to ask him everything about his life, but she didn't want to scare him away. After all, she'd only known him for a couple of days.

"Well, I'm glad he's imparted some knowledge in you. I need all the help I can get with this project." She had finished sketching and looked at Jace expectantly. "Where to next?"

Jace smiled crookedly at her. "Follow me."

He took her to parts of Central Park she'd never seen before. A thin stream that cascaded down rocks in a beautiful waterfall, ornate cast-bronze gates that led to secret gardens, statues of angels watching over fountains and men releasing falcons and soldier going into battle. Clary was shocked that she had lived in New York all her life and had never before noticed the beautiful secrets hidden in her backyard.

Hours later, feet sore and sketchpad filled, Clary slumped in a bench on Balcony Bridge. Jace joined her.

"I had fun today," she said as she fingered the hem of her shirt. She looked up at Jace. "Thank you."

"I'm required to help pretty girls in need of assistance. Chivalry and all that."

"I thought chivalry was dead."

"Only endangered. A noble few still follow the ways of King Arthur and his loyal knights. 'The very purpose of a knight is to fight on behalf of a lady.'" he quoted.

"I hate to break it to you, but there was no damsel in distress today. No fighting, no swords, no bad guys. Just a girl working on an art project."

"How you wound me, Ms. Clary Fray. You could make it up to me, however, by—"

Clary's phone rang. It was an embarrassing rendition of "Peanut Butter Jelly Time." Jace burst out laughing. She blushed, but glared at him. It was a prank Simon had played on her freshman year. She just never got around to changing it.

"Go ahead and get that," he said generously as he sat back on the bench, still looking incredibly amused.

Clary turned away from him and answered her phone. It was her mother, screaming at her for being out so late without letting her know where she was. Simon had stopped by Clary's apartment after band practice, and Jocelyn was furious to find out that he had no idea where Clary was. He mentioned something about Maia, but Jocelyn had talked with Jordan earlier and knew that he and Maia were spending the day together.

"This is a dangerous city, Clary. You could get mugged, or kidnapped, or murdered." Jocelyn continued detailing the possible ways Clary could be harmed.

"Mother," Clary interrupted. "It's barely nine o'clock. And I'm with a friend. It's fine."

"No, Clary, it's not. I work with the cops. I know the crap that happens here. I want you to come home now."

"But mom—"

"We have a lot to talk about, honey. Just come home. Please."

"I'll be there in half an hour."

"Make it twenty minutes."

Clary hung up and took a deep breath before she faced Jace on the bench. "Sorry about that."

"It's sweet that she cares about you like that."

"She's paranoid."

"She's a mom."

Clary couldn't argue with that logic. She gathered her things and stood up. "Thanks again, for today."

Jace rolled his eyes. "You know I'm taking you home, right?" Clary gave him a confused look. "You could get mugged, or kidnapped, or murdered. A rabid dog could maul you. A car could hit you. A tree branch could fall on your head. You need my protection."

"Do you have a car?"

"This is New York. Who has a car? I've got money for a cab, though, and I won't take no for an answer."

oOo

Jocelyn waited anxiously by the door. What was taking Clary so long? Luke rubbed her shoulders as she wrung her hands together.

"You have to tell her, Jocelyn."

"Not yet, Luke."

"She's in danger, and she's never going to take you seriously if you don't tell her what's really going on."

"We don't know for sure that he's back."

"I examined the brains myself. It was his handiwork."

"Maybe it was a student of his."

"Even if that's the case, they could want revenge. You left him, and then you took his daughter away from him, Jocelyn. No one forgives that."

"I'll tell her," Jocelyn decided. "I just want to give her some more time. I'm not sure she's ready yet."

Both of them sighed with relief as they heard light footsteps bounding up the stairs. Luke released Jocelyn's shoulders reluctantly.

"If you don't tell her soon, you might not have more time," Luke said as he grabbed his keys from the coffee table. "Think about it."

**oOo**

**Guys, I am the worst person ever. I'm so sorry it took so long to get this updated! I tried to make it slightly longer to make up for it, but, let's be honest. There's not a whole lot of plot here. I'm sorry! I'll try to get more done in the next couple of days because I'm leaving again on Friday. At 4 AM. Gah. Mornings. Not good.**

**Anyway, I had a great time at the college writing class and learned SO MUCH. I went back to the first few chapters of this and cringed. It was an awesome experience, I wrote a lot, made a ton of friends who love to write, and got to learn stuff from a published author. Best two weeks ever.**

**If any of you are interested in reading what I wrote while I was there (but let's be honest, you're all just here for the Clace), you can check it out at ** .com(slash)20993833-angel#.UeUAwm2R52A**. Fair warning: it contains strippers and drug use. PG-13 concepts. Granted, no foul language or explicit scenes, but the main character is, you know, a drug-addicted stripper. Just FYI.**

**I think that's it. Again, I'll try to update soon and get the plot moving. I really have no idea where I'm going with this, but I'm having fun writing it.**

**~Cas**


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